Epic Poems from Ireland

I'm a little more than half way through "How the Irish Saved Civilization" by Thomas Cahill. It's a very interesting book covering history, literature, mythology, religion, anthropology, etc. etc. Included in one chapter are excerpts from the Irish epic poem Táin Bó Cúailnge and another poem "The Lament for Art O'Leary" (Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire), which, as Cahill says, is "one of the last great poems to be written in the Irish language" from 1773 by Dark Eileen O'Connell.

part of Derdriu's lament for Noisiu from the Tain

Sweet in your sight the fiery strideof raiding men returned to Emain.More nobly strode the three proudsons of Uisliu toward their home:

Noisiu bearing the best mead--I would wash him by the fire--Ardan, with a stag or boar,Anle, shouldering his load.

The son of Nes, battle-proud,drinks, you say, the choicest mead.Choicer still--a brimming sea--I have taken frequently.

Modest Noisu woud preparea cokking-pit in the forest floor.Sweeter then than any meatthe son of Uisliu's, honey sweet.

Though for you the times are sweet with pipers and with trumpeters,I swear today I can't forgetthat I have known far sweeter airs.

. . .

Noisiu: his grave-mound is madeand mournfully accompanied.The highest hero--and I pouredthe deadly drink when he died.

His cropped gold fleece I loved,and fine form--a tall tree.Alas, I needn't watch today,nor wait for the son of Uisliu.

I loved the modest, mighty warrior,loved his fitting firm desire,loved him at daybreak as he dressedby the margin of the forest.

Those blue eyes that melted women,and menaced enemies, I loved:then, with our forest journey done,his chanting through the dark woods.

I don't sleep now,nor redden my fingernails.What have I to do with welcomes?The son of Indel will not come.

excerpts from "The Lament of Art O'Leary"

My love and my delight,the day I saw you firstBeside the markethouseI had eyes for nothing elseAnd love for none but you.

. . .

You gave me everything.There were larlours whitened for meBedroom painted for meOvens reddened for me,Loaves baked for me,Joints spitted for me,Beds made for meTo take my ease in flockUntil the milking timeAnd later if I pleased.

. . .

My love and my fortune'Tis an evil portion To lay for a giant--A shroud and a coffin--For a big-hearted heroWho fished in the hill-streamsAnd deink in bright hallsWith white breasted women.

. . .

My rider of the bright eyes,What happened you yesterday?I thought you in my heart,When I bought you your fine clothes,A man the world could not slay.